Beyond this place (33 page)

Paul grew hot, then cold, with indignation. Were they to be obstructed at every turn? But Nigel Grahame merely bowed, accepting the decision of the court with perfect equanimity.

"My lords, I perceive it is your intention to limit as far as possible the number of witnesses and for that reason I shall call only five, to whom you cannot possibly take exception. Touching the question you have raised of those who saw the body, you will recollect, my lords, from your reading of the case, that Dr. Tuke, the physician who viewed the murdered woman immediately she had expired, was not summoned to give evidence at the trial. My lords, in all your experience, you cannot name one case in which the doctor who first examined the body was not asked to testify. Why, then, in this instance was this crucial witness ignored? Dr. Tuke is now dead, but his widow is here today to answer that very pertinent question."

A ripple went through the court as Mrs. Tuke's name was

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called, and a moment later she went into the witness box, a staid, elderly figure in black, a woman upon whose plain, lined face honesty and respectability were unmistakably written. She took the oath intelligently, then turned towards Grahame, who began his interrogation in an easy tone.

"You are the widow of Dr. Tuke, who died in 1933, and for a number of years prior to his death carried on practice in the Eldon district of Wortley?"

"That is correct, sir."

"You know that your husband was called to Miss Spurling's house on the night of the murder?"

"I do."

"Did he say anything to you regarding it?"

"Oh, yes, it was such a terrible event, we talked it over together on many occasions."

"Did your husband at any time express surprise to you that he had not been called as a witness at the trial?"

"Indeed he did. He said it was most remarkable. He said . . ." She broke off with a timorous glance towards the bench.

"Do not be afraid, Mrs. Tuke. The object of this court is to obtain, not to suppress, your evidence. What did he say?"

"He said the prosecutor did not regard his opinion as relevant."

Again a wave of interest went through the court and for the first time the attention of the spectators was directed towards Sir Matthew Sprott. Although Paul knew the facts so well he felt himself carried away by the rising current of excitement in the air.

"Tell us, Mrs. Tuke," Grahame resumed, "in your own words, the views which your husband expressed to you in the manv conversations which you had with him upon the subject."

There was a pause. The witness sipped from the glass of water before her.

"Well, sir," she began, "Dr. Tuke always believed that the murder could not have been committed by a razor. In his opinion the instrument was quite different — sharp-pointed and piercing, more like a surgeon's scalpel than anything else."

"How did he reach that conclusion?"

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"From a careful examination of the injuries. You see, sir, he found a deep penetrating wound at the right side of the neck, then a great slash, tapering away to the left ear."

"So he concluded that a pointed, thin-bladed weapon had first been thrust deeply into the great vessels of the neck, before the secondary slash?"

"Yes sir."

"And a razor, with its round, blunt end, could never have achieved such a result."

"That is just what he said, sir. He also believed that the assault was committed by someone very powerful, and violent. Moreover, from the disposition of the wounds, and the way the blood had splashed the rug near the body, he believed, indeed he told me he was sure, that the knife had been wielded by a left-handed man."

"A left-handed man," repeated Grahame with peculiar emphasis, and he gazed at his witness with a hint of severity. "Your recollection of that is quite clear and distinct?"

"Quite clear." The widow's lips trembled slightly. She answered with touching dignity. "Dr. Tuke was a good husband to me, sir. I respect his memory. Do you think I would put words in his mouth I believed to be untrue?"

"Not for an instant. I wished merely to make your good faith indisputably apparent to all the court."

As though sensing a challenge in these words and in the momentary glance that Grahame directed towards him, the Attorney-General responded testily.

"I am quite in the dark as to the purpose for which this witness is being examined at such length. In the meantime I have no questions."

"That will be all, then, Mrs. Tuke. We are much indebted to you. And now I ask my next witness to appear."

At a sign from Mr. Grahame the old lady stepped down, and the name of Professor Valentine was called out in court.

The individual who now stepped forward was a short and officious man aged about fifty, dressed very professionally in a slightly seedy frock coat with satin lapels, high white collar and black tie. His complexion was sallow and from his high forehead

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there arose a bush of black hair which, worn long at the back, gave him the air of a second-rate impresario. When he had taken the oath he struck an attitude, one hand on his hip and the other on the ledge of the box before him, head thrown back, ready, it seemed, for every eventuality.

"Mr. Valentine," Grahame began, mildly, "you have, I understand, some knowledge of handwriting?"

"I am a professor of paleography," Valentine stated, with dignity. "I possess the diploma D.P.W. And I think I may say that my reputation as an expert is universally known."

"Excellent. At the trial I believe you testified that the note of assignation found in the murdered woman's flat had been written by Rees Mathry?"

"I did, sir ... I was called in specially by the prosecution."

"You realized at that time, I am sure, the gravity and importance of your opinion and you were perfectly convinced, I presume, that it was correct?"

"Indubitably correct, sir. I have had great experience in attesting the validity of private and public documents in cases of the most vital importance."

"Then would you tell us Mr. — I beg your pardon — Professor Valentine, how you arrived at such a very positive conclusion?"

"By the use of the magnifying glass, sir, upon the document in question and by enlarged photographs of the calligraphy, which I compared with the specimen of the prisoner's handwriting — as manifest in the post card admittedly written by the prisoner — I was able, owing to my expert knowledge, to reach the definite conclusion that the note had likewise been written, in a disguised manner, by Mathry."

"In what manner disguised?"

"By the simple and extremely common expedient of taking the pen in the left hand."

"Ah! So the note of assignation was written left-handed?"

"Indubitably. And by the prisoner, Mathry."

"And by Mathry." Grahame smiled agreeably. "Such conviction is very reassuring. I am ill-qualified, Professor, to plumb the mysteries of your art. Nevertheless, it would appear, from the highest authorities upon the subject, that evidence of this kind,

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based on opinion and theory, cannot always be implicitly relied upon. You have heard, perhaps, of the case of Adolf Beck?"

The Professor did not answer, but his air became loftier.

"In that case, Professor, a handwriting expert of acknowledged reputation swore upon oath that certain letters had been written by a man named Adolf Beck who, on the strength of this evidence, was sentenced to five-years penal servitude. At the end of which time, after this long sentence had been fully served, it was proved beyond all shadow of doubt that he had not written the letters, that he was completely innocent, and that the handwriting expert had made a ghastly, unspeakable blunder which condemned a blameless fellow creature to five years of ruinous misery."

Valentine threw back his hair with an outraged air.

"I had nothing to do with the Beck case."

"Of course not, Professor. Your case was the Mathry case and that is what immediately concerns us. Now, in your opinion there were three distinct points. First, that the writing was left-handed, secondly, that it was disguised, thirdly, that it was by Mathry. Would you tell us which of these findings you base upon fact and which upon personal deduction?"

The Professor now looked thoroughly put out, and he answered somewhat heatedly.

"The merest novice, sir, could tell from the slope and configuration of the letters that the note in question was written disguised and left-handed. The third point, however, involves skilled technical knowledge of a high order . . . one might even use the word intuition ... a sort of sixth sense which enables the expert to recognise a specific calligraphy amongst a host of others."

"Thank you, Professor," Grahame said quietly. "That is precisely what I wished to know. In point of fact, with all your senses you affirm that the note was written disguised and left-handed. With your sixth sense, your intuition, you opine that it was written by Mathry. That is all."

The Professor, more ruffled than ever, opened his mouth as though about to speak. But he seemed to judge it wiser to say nothing. As he stepped down, Mr. Grahame turned to the bench.

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"My lords, with your permission I will call Police-Surgeon Dobson."

Again, the Attorney-General, despite his bulk, was swiftly on his feet.

"My lords, I must strenuously object. You have agreed that we are not here to re-try the case. The police-surgeon was heard in full at the original trial. Further evidence from him is not admissible."

"Unless," Grahame interposed calmly, "as you yourself have stated, it arises out of fresh facts."

A moment of tension followed, a silent conflict of wills, broken by the voice of the Lord Chief Justice.

"You wish to call the surgeon upon these grounds?"

"If it please your lordships."

A motion of assent was made following which a spry dark-haired man, dressed in a navy-blue suit, with an athletic figure and an agreeable, virile face bustled across the court and, with the composure of one who has often occupied that position, took up his place in the box.

"Dr. Dobson," Grahame began, in his most winning manner, "vou have heard the theories of Dr. Tuke relating to the murdered woman's injuries, given to the court concisely and most lucidly by his widow. What do you think of them?"

"Rubbish."

The word, not uttered contemptuously, but with a disarming smile, sent a murmur of amusement through the gallery. Although it was at once suppressed, Mathry ground his teeth and glared at the offenders.

"Rubbish, Doctor? A strong term, is it not?"

"You asked for my opinion. I have given it."

Paul caught his breath sharply. He doubted the wisdom of calling the police-surgeon and feared that Grahame would fare badly against this confident, determined witness. But unruffled and undeterred, the young barrister went on.

"Perhaps in general you are opposed to theories."

"When I find a woman with her throat cut and her head virtually severed from her body I find little need for theoretical speculation."

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"I see. You conclude immediately that the lethal weapon was the obvious one — a razor."

"I did not once mention the word razor."

"But the prosecution in its most damning indictment produced a razor as the actual fatal instrument."

"That is not my department."

"Then let us return, if we may, to your department. Theorizing apart, what was your conclusion, if any, in respect to the weapon?"

"That the injuries were occasioned by an extremely sharp instrument."

The surgeon, justifiably but mistakenly, was growing angry. Grahame smiled at him gently.

"So, as Dr. Tuke contended, the murderer could have used a thin, sharp blade, such as a scalpel."

Annoyance and honesty contended openly in the surgeon's face.

"Yes," he declared at length, "I suppose he could. Provided he had some knowledge of anatomy."

"Some knowledge of anatomy." Grahame, despite his quiet tone, gave the phrase a thrilling significance. "Thank you, Doctor . . . thank you, very much. And now, you performed an autopsy upon the murdered woman."

"Naturally."

"You found that she was pregnant."

"I stated the fact in my report."

"Did you state the term of pregnancy?"

"Of course," the police-surgeon answered warmly. "Are you suggesting that I was remiss in my duty?"

"Far from it, Doctor. However much we may differ on the question of metaphysics I am convinced of your absolute integrity. How long had the murdered woman been pregnant?"

"Three months."

"You are sure?"

"As sure as I'm standing in this box I reported that she was three months gone . . . perhaps a day or two over."

"And your report was sent to the prosecuting counsel?"

"Of course."

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"Thank you, Doctor. That will be all." Grahame, with a pleasant smile, dismissed Dobson then turned to the bench.

"My lords, with your consent I will call my fourth witness."

A weedy little man came forward, thin-faced, bald, prematurely aged, dressed in a check suit too large for his wizened frame.

"What is your name?"

"Harry Rocca."

"Your present occupation?"

"Stableman ... at the Nottingham Race Course."

"It was you who, fifteen years ago, disclosed to the police the false alibi which Mathry attempted to arrange."

"Yes."

"You knew Mathry well?"

"We knocked around together."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In the Sherwood Pool Rooms . . . around January 1921."

"And later on you introduced him to the Spurling woman?"

"That's right, sir."

"Can you recollect precisely when this introduction took place?"

"Very well. It was the day of the big July Handicap at Cat-terick. I recall it quite clear because I had five quid on the winner . . . Warminster."

"You say the July Handicap?"

"Yes, sir. Run the fourteenth of July."